It begged the question: how could something so simple get so screwed up?
He sighed.
“You’re in a bad position. You know enough to be in trouble, but not enough to protect yourself.”
“What does that mean?”
“Think about it. A secret can get you killed, but it can also save your life.”
“You sound like a fortune cookie.”
Miles glared at me. “You came to me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But you did sound like a cookie, a little.”
“Yeah, well try this one on for size: there’s only one way to kill a shadow.”
He looked at me without a trace of humor.
“How’s that?”
“Turn on the light.”
Miles outlined a plan. I would find Humpty Dumpty and get him to tell me everything he could about the V &D, as quickly as possible. We would document everything in writing, make copies, and address them to all sorts of people-reporters, investigators, conspiracy theorists, anyone we could think of. Then, we’d seal those envelopes in larger envelopes and send them to Miles’s most trusted friends at big law firms. Firms that knew about offshore accounts and information that had to be invisible yet accessible. Miles would reach out to them quietly, informally. They would never even know what the information was about. They would just know that if something happened to us, they were to open the envelope and drop the package inside in the mail. That was the leverage: we would live in a precarious balance, like Schrödinger’s cat; the information would exist and not exist, and everyone could go on living. I had no idea if the plan would work, if it even made sense. But I couldn’t think of anything better. And I was so tired, so scared, that I grabbed on to it like the revealed word of God.
“Now,” Miles said, slipping into a sweater. “Who else have you been with since the night at the plant?”
I felt my heart stop.
Sarah.
23
I went to see Humpty Dumpty. I had no idea where he lived, but the last time I saw him, he could barely walk. My gut told me I’d find him passed out in his office chair at the library. If he made it that far.
I called Sarah and begged her to meet up with Miles. She sounded tired and confused, but I managed to convince her. She had no idea what was going on, and when she did, she would probably hate me, but at least she’d be safe. That was good enough for now. There was a sick feeling in my throat that kept pulsing: you did this. But I swallowed it down. Right now, I was the investigator. Humpty had reached out to me. I was the one he would talk to. I had a job to do.
The library was open twenty-four hours, but it was after midnight on a Sunday, and it was deserted when I got there. I kept my hat low and tried not to look over my shoulder too much.
I headed for the administrators’ wing: forsaken on a busy night and now positively gravelike.
There was a soft light under the door of Humpty’s office. A good sign. The nameplate announced ARTHUR PEABODY, HEAD TUTOR OF LEGAL METHOD.
I knocked softly.
No response.
I knocked again.
Nothing.
I tried the door.
It was unlocked. I slipped into the room. I saw the dome of Humpty’s head over the back of the chair. A few liver spots. Some wisps of white hair.
“Mr. Peabody?”
Nothing.
“Mr. Peabody?”
Passed out, I thought. I wondered if I could rouse him.
Then I heard it.
A soft, gurgling noise. I thought of a child blowing bubbles in milk with a straw.
Oh, no.
What was it? Was he choking on his own vomit, like a drummer in a rock band? Or something else…
No.
I pushed the thought out of my head and walked closer.
The office was perfectly silent, except for that faint gurgling noise. I was suddenly slapped across the face by the sound of a clock chime.
I jumped, let out a nervous little laugh, and kept walking.
Still no movement from Humpty.
“Mr. Peabody?”
I got close enough to touch his chair.
I reached my hand out. My fingers were trembling.
The chair wheeled around slowly as I pulled on the leather arm.
Arthur Peabody was holding his neck. Rivers of blood spilled through his fingers.
“Oh my God.”
I grabbed for the phone on his desk. He caught my arm and squeezed it.
“No,” he hissed.
“I’m calling 911.”
He tried to shake his head. With every turn, the river between his fingers surged.
“Please,” he whispered.
I could barely hear him. His fingers clawed into my arm. He was trying to pull me in. He whispered into my ear.
“Now or later… they’ll… get me…” he wheezed.
“I can protect you.”
When I saw his face, I knew what he thought of that.
“… let it… happen…”
“Please. I can’t.”
His mouth worked in my ear.
“I missed… my… chance.”
“Chance for what?”
His mouth felt wet. Pink froth appeared at the corners.
“… not… dying…”
His whole body started to shake. His lips were turning blue. His eyes were fading. They were distant, blind. I was losing him.
“Please, Arthur, I need your help.”
He made wild, incoherent noises. His eyes rolled back in his head.
“Please. Tell me something. Anything.”
His life was spilling out all over me. The desk was rapidly turning dark red in an expanding pool. I needed his help. Now.
“Arthur say, something.”
Just hissing; twitching muscles.
I had a vivid memory. In the hallway. The day Bernini fired me. Peabody said something about a joke. Bernini was furious.
– Why don’t you tell him the joke?
– Enough. Remember your deal.
That meant something to him. Something important.
“Arthur, listen to me. What was the joke? The one Bernini didn’t want me to hear?” I shook him hard. “The joke, Arthur.”
For a split second, his eyes seemed to focus. The memory pulled him back.
“The joke…” he whispered.
“Yes. YES. The joke. Tell me.”
He started moaning. His eyes rolled back up-all I could see was white, the tiny delicate veins.
“What’s the joke?” I shouted, cupping his face and pushing my nose into his.
He was moving his lips, just the last echoes of a memory. Mindless. Gone.
I pushed my ear right against his foaming mouth.
“… if… you… want to… know… about the V and D…”
“YES? YES?”
“… look… at… it… with… four… eyes…”
And then his stare went blank, and the gurgling stopped.
Arthur Peabody was dead.
I couldn’t stop shaking. A man had just died right in front me. Someone who’d risked his life to help me. Whatever they were up to, Humpty had found the courage-at the very end of his life, in his own crazy way-to turn on them.
Except that now he was facedown in a pool of blood on his desk, and I didn’t know anything-except a stupid childish riddle with no answer. What now?
I rendezvoused with Miles at a seedy motel on the outskirts of town, the one families never used on Parents Weekend. Miles had paid in cash and used a fake ID from the bowels of his wallet, a vestige from his college days. Lenny Wurzengord, it said. Miles had been so proud of it back then. He even wrote me a letter explaining his genius: no one would ever suspect it was a fake ID, because no one on earth would choose to be called Lenny Wurzengord.
I knocked on the door to room 18 and prayed Sarah would be in there. Seeing Humpty Dumpty had pulled back the last curtain between myself and death, which frankly had never seemed that scary to a young guy who lived in his parents’ basement. But now it wasn’t a concept anymore. It was red and sticky and all over my hands. One more night sleeping in the Dead Man’s room and I would’ve been the one gurgling and grabbing my throat.